~ A book about cycling in the Greater Toronto Area

Monthly Archives: June 2012

I have yet another treat for you. A couple of weeks ago, a book designer contacted me and offered his services. I accepted at once. You would have too. It’s James Wilson, of Overdrive Design.

To give you some history, James and I met serendipitously (as is the case with everything to do with One Block North). I had carded the bike of one of his employees, who had modestly recommended her boss to me if I wanted truly outstanding bike stories. When I walked into Overdrive Design last August, I was met by a herd of seven bikes at the door. Everyone in the office commutes, but especially James. Everyday, he rides in from Oakville. That’s forty kilometres one way.

In the mid 1980s, James worked at city hall, writing safe cycling handbooks. There’s a hard-core advocate at work here, but he does it quietly. For instance, all but one of those bikes that met me at Overdrive Design was his–he lends his bikes to staff so they can really enjoy their commute.

And he’s not just a commuter. He loves the sport of cycling, too. Many of the distance events occurring in Ontario are attended by James and a pack of his friends. He shared with me that recently he’s done the Rideau Lakes Ride, as well as a twenty-five kilometre vertical ride, up a mountain in the northern States. James then congratulated me that I now know what altitude climbs feel like, and the bliss of riding through the cloudline. He is an inspiring mentor.

As you might expect, I kept intoning, “OMG” at every comment during the interview last August. At one point, James asked me what I ride. When I told him my bike is a Rocky Mountain, he turned my attention to the company logo.

“You know the three peaks with the red background? I designed that.”

Yeah. OMG! So, now you know at least one of the reasons why I trust James with the design for One Block North. It’s because he loves Rockies! (just teasing. Sort of.)

I’m very pleased and extremely proud to have James Wilson design One Block North, “inside and out”, as he describes it. While I know what I want for the cover, I’m giving James carte blanche on the inside, because I know he will make this a book to remember. James, along with our editor Marie-Lynn Hammond and all your exceptional bike stories, will ensure that this will be one extremely professional, remarkably Canadian, book.

In an earlier post, I mentioned that Husim, Alberto’s sister, was being feted to celebrate her graduation from veterinary college. That party occurred this Saturday evening, and never have I felt so honoured to have been invited to any celebration.

Please forgive the lack of images. My camera battery decided to pack it in this week and you can’t get a replacement here easily. The family have taken photos for me, so I hope to be able to share several soon!

Because it had rained in Tehuacan for two days straight, the family decided not to host the party in their family courtyard, but rather to have it at the Balaquarum. I also mentioned this location in an earlier post, but didn’t realize its significance until this weekend. In Ernesto’s family, each child was presented with a piece of property in Tehuacan. Because Ernesto was the eldest, he lived with his parents in the family home. He didn’t need the property to build his own family home, so instead he used it to build a competition-level training pool for family and friends. The Balaquarum belongs to Ernesto.

Life is a competition. Tenacity, intelligence, discipline and effort are your weapons for the win.

Carmine greets me warmly, with a kiss. I protest that, with the wet streets, I decided against wearing my pretty dress and feel underdressed for the occasion. She laughs that Alberto is wearing jeans and that I am just fine.

“The most important thing to us is that you are here,” she says genuinely.

I am overcome by their warmth. Mexicans practice extreme hospitality. Ekie and Alberto seat me with his cousin Abram, with whom I share a few words in English. Then, I tuck into the meal, which has been brought promptly.

It is a side of beans, a side of macaroni with ham and pineapple in mayonnaise, and a huge helping of pork in hot sauce. Alberto confides that his mother has bought five whole pigs for the celebration, so much that she paid a nearby bakery to cook it for her. There are huge vats of food upstairs and I am urged to order seconds as soon as my plate is empty. For dessert, there is cake.

When I first arrived in Tehuacan, I was disappointed that Mexicans seem fixated on cake. I once watched one of Alberto’s aunts decorate one for a young boy’s birthday. It featured a farm scene, with cows, pigs, chickens, chicklets, a farmer. Even the corn was perfect, with niblets and husks and hair! It was enchanting. When I was invited to Husim’s party, I asked immediately if there would be cake, only half teasing. I really did want to taste one of these!

I remember all this as I am led to the cake before it is cut. Because Husim is now a veterinarian, the scene is again of a field of animals. There’s a female character done to perfectly mimic Husim, down to the lab coat, the wavy hair and the gentle smile. Cows and pigs stand nearby, but the main creatures are sheep, Husim’s specialty. One sheep is standing on its hindlegs, peering into Husim’s face. She holds a small needle in one hand, and the sheep appears accepting and ready.

The ornaments are made of plastic so are not edible. However, the rest of the cake is. In fact, I say without hesitation that this was the best cake I have ever tasted. It is a white cake with a pineapple filling and a luscious (and not too sweet) icing. I have three pieces (as do most of the other guests!)

Later tonight, I will arrive home to find one of the teachers has made a boxed cake for a friend. With my first bite I know why I have never been a fan of cake, and why I will never forget the Mexican cake. There is no comparison.

Just as I finish eating my second piece of cake, a Mariachi band starts up in the other room! My grandfather was nicknamed Mr. Music in his hometown, Wallaceburg, because he was the high school music teacher and the instigator of every musical event. I leap up to get a better look as the two trumpets, the three guitars, and the two fiddles working their magic. Mariachi bands almost always use a classical guitar and a vihuela (a high-pitched, five-string guitar), a guitarrón (a large acoustic bass guitar). Every man is dressed traditionally, in black, silver studded charro costumes. They all sing in turn and both instruments and voices raise the most beautiful harmonies. None of the instruments are plugged in and the men sing without microphones. This is live music at its finest, sung directly from the heart.

At Ernesto’s encouragement, I get up and stand beside the lead singer. He leans into my side, so I place my head on his shoulder, clasping my hands together like a smitten schoolgirl. Everyone giggles and Ernesto takes a few photos of us together. Then, I kiss the singer soundly on the cheek (Mexican, for “I love it!”)

At my table again, Ernesto asks Ekie to inquire when I am leaving. I tell them my bus will depart at 10AM tomorrow. Ernesto looks distant and shakes his head, and leaves. Returning with a very large shot of tequila, a half lime and some salt, he tells Ekie to explain that he insists I crawl away from the Balaquarum tonight, it being my last in his town. He mimics this crawling movement for me, as if to underscore just how rough I must feel to comply.

Various friends and family members seat themselves beside me over the course of the evening, to practice their English. They are all excited that I am here teaching, because they feel I won’t mind their attempts. I tell them all that they are doing very well (which they are!) and that I am impressed with their courage.

The music has stopped. The band has played for over an hour non-stop, and now they are all seated at the far table, sharing the meal with us. Everyone here is treated like family.

Abram has left his piece of cake unattended, and everyone at the table is teasing him about it, even me who has always preferred pie!

When I beg names of all these people from Ekie, she tells me that everyone is invited, even near strangers. She explains that the beauty of this custom is that you are always meeting new people. While her Dutch upbringing and my Canadian reservation would never encourage this, we both agree that we are unexpectedly drawn to it.

Suddenly, the Balaquarum is overcome with a deafening noise. We can hardly hear each other.

“It’s raining!” says Ekie joyously.

The metal roof intensifies the sound tremendously, and I am returned to my aunt’s Laundry House on the Manitoulin Island, where we children slept fitfully to the occasional roar of a storm.

Small glass mason jars are placed in front of each guest. They are filled with candies and decorated with the same pig faces as on the cake. “In memory of my graduation” each one says on the bottom.

I open mine and take out a candy, and one of the women nearby stops me urgently. Apparently, tequila and sugar do not mix. For the second time tonight, someone mimics me crawling from the Balaquarum. I place the candy back into the jar, delicately.

People begin to file out, but everyone shakes my hand as they pass, or kisses my cheek. We all treat each other with respect and consideration, and we are all happy to have been invited. As they pass the waitstaff (who have in my opinion been extremely attentive) many people press tips into their hands.

I feel very lucky to have had the chance to teach in Tehuacan, but my best memories will always be of this family and of how they have befriended me so completely.

I carry you in my heart, Carmine, Ernesto, Alberto and Ekie, Husim and Carmine, all your aunts and cousins, your brother-in-law, the dogs, cats, rabbits and birds. And I shall miss you, dear Lola, my loyal and intrepid companion.

The first weekend I cycled with Ernesto, he took me home to spend some time with his wife over a few beer. They gave me a tour of their warm and delightful home, introduced me to all their animals and made me feel very much a part of their family.

One of the many things they shared with me was that their youngest daughter had just finished her final exams, as a veterinarian. A celebration had been planned for June 16th and should I still be in the city, they wanted me to come to the festivities.

Inviting everyone to a celebration is very common with Mexican families. They described the upcoming festivities as small, and then laughed that several people they hardly know are being invited, which is very common. Then, they hurriedly reassured me that they wanted me to be there, for personal reasons. We had shared some lovely moments this month, in meaningful ways.

Late last week I received an email from Indonesia stating that I am expected there the last week of June, so I will not be leaving Tehuacan until at least the 17th. I am available and very excited to be invited to Husim’s ceremony and family celebration. On Sunday, the family presented me with my own invitation.

The translator fails me, but here is a general sense of what the invitation says.

As a future veterinarian I have gone through a series of stages in my life and I would like to have the support of all my family and my friends. For this reason, we invite you to join me at the Eucharistic celebration.

I have also been invited to the family celebration at the house, immediately following the service.

On Sunday, I was invited to join Alberto, Eeke, Ernesto and one of Ernesto’s many friends (Juan Manuel, I think he said *sigh*) on another mountainous ride. This time, we passed the road Vicente Guerrero which took us to San Bernardino, and went on to Fresnel, a tiny community about 45 minutes drive from Tehuacan. If you look on a map, none of these places appear. They’re very small but charming nonetheless. The road into Fresnel was not as windy as the one we took the previous weekend, but it was high in the mountains. I felt my ears pop twice as we drove and realized then that I was in for an adventure.

Arriving in Fresnel, we were greeted by a farmer herding his single, unwilling cow up the steep incline and a man on his donkey. There were roosters crowing and turkeys gobbling, as with every community here. Even the yard across from my primary school has a rooster in it, and he welcomes us to his block every morning.

The roads in town were paved (oh joy! oh bliss!), unlike those just two minutes out of town, on which we rode. These were formed of hand-placed rocks and stone, which is much more passable than any I’d seen yet, but they were still hard to cycle.

As I watched Ernesto untie the bikes, I realized my seat was the lowest and the least fancy schmancy. Still, Lola and I were eager to get out there.

When I had Juan Manuel’s bike pointed out to me, I realized just how fancy schmancy it was.

Heading up the mountain, we hit a steep ascent almost immediately. The altitude was as hard on me as I’d expected: I had to get off and walk within the first three kilometres. Twenty minutes later, I caught up with the other cyclists at a rest stop.

“I’m very proud of myself. I rode every inch of the flats!” I panted.

Being a fast walker and wearing my Saucony running shoes were two big advantages. It meant I wasn’t far behind the others. The heat was harder on me this trip than the other two, even though we started at 7 a.m. It’s been getting up to 35 degrees by mid-day and since we’re in the rainy season there’s humidity on top of that. I was sweating through every pore I owned and a few I didn’t know about. At first I was embarrassed at having to walk so much of the climb, but I realized quickly that the stress of the past couple of weeks has been hard on all the teachers, so this was more than just a tough ascent and altitude training. I was feeling punk from everything. Still, it didn’t stop my revelling in the most beautiful surroundings with supportive friends.

This ride was circuitous. We rode (sorry, they rode, I walked) to the top of one mountain, from which we enjoyed a most spectacular view of another volcano and several quaint villages in valleys, then down and across to another mountain. The downward ride was somehow harder. “Gu Gu Gu” went my teeth; “cling cling cling” went my bracelet; “gu gu gu” went my brain in my skull. You *want* to whip down the hills like the pros, who would kindly wait for me at one turn and then would hurtle by my side, sounding like a passing freight train.

On the final hill rests the town of Esperanza, where we stopped for lunch. Alberto claims this as his favourite roadside taco stop and I could understand why. There were hot, soft taco shells into which we loaded scrumptious beef and hot chilis, and a bag of crispy taco shells with chicken in them. The men had walked over to a store for soft drinks and some “dessert”. The dessert was one of those Joe Louis type things with chocolate cake and a jam and gooey white filling, something I haven’t had since I was a teenager. So yummy, and perfect after the gruelling ride.

At the taco stand, Eeke sat beside me.

“Are you okay?” she asked, a little worried. “Do you want us to go get the truck?”

“Oh no!” I said. “I’m fine!”

We went back and forth like this for a few minutes and then I realized I was obviously not going to make the ride back up the hill into Fresnel. Eeke, Ernesto and I would ride casually back while Berto and Juan Manuel would ride ahead and bring the truck to meet us. I really am a faster walker than the others, so I told them to just stay on their bikes whenever we hit an ascent, and I wouldn’t be far behind. We met the boys about six kilometres from Fresnel: the entire ride that day was about 42 kilometres.

On the way back into town, I slept in the truck. Back at the house, Ernesto’s dear wife brought out bottles of beer and snacks. She put on some delightful ranchero music from her home village of Agua Calliente, which literally means Hot Water.

“Have you ever had a mifrolada?” Berto asked me. I thought he was talking about an enfricolada, which is a taco variation. He wasn’t. Apparently my having slowed the ride down today didn’t put a damper on our friendship because the family treated me to a beer in a frosty mug that was mixed with lime juice, hot sauce, Worcester sauce and a liquid form of Marmite. It was astoundingly good.

Then, Ernesto brought out the tequila.

“Every Mexican home has tequila in it,” he announced proudly as he poured me a glass. My eyes bulged as I saw how much my glass contained. The others laughed and said I had to watch Ernesto because he could be generous. He arose and came back a few seconds later with a bottle of something that looked BBQed. It was full of cooked worms.

These worms are harvested from the plant I mistook for Aloe Vera two weeks ago. When the leaves turn yellow, it means there are worms inside. Once harvested, the worms are baked and coated in a hot seasoning. I wasn’t sold on the appearance of them, but if Ernesto was going to share these expensive savouries with me, I certainly wasn’t going to say no.

You eat a couple of worms (they’re crunchy and quite tasty!), then drown it with a swig of tequila followed quickly by a squirt of lime and salt. It was a big hit with me. No, really! I’m not making this up!